


Small Indulgences

by exmachinarium



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Gen, but hey it's R we're talking about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 09:30:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exmachinarium/pseuds/exmachinarium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Contrary to the popular belief, Grantaire doesn’t drink to forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small Indulgences

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here it is, my very first Les Mis drabble; born from irritation at how Grantaire is always reduced to (dismissed as) a full-on drunk and at my own stiff and chilled fingers… I suppose that’s all the explanation I can come up with.

Contrary to the popular belief, Grantaire is not drunk _constantly_ , if only because by now his mind and body are quite resilient to anything weaker than absinthe. Also contrary to the popular belief, he doesn’t drink to forget.

(Even though there are some memories he’d rather drown at the bottom of his bottle.)

In fact, he rarely drinks for himself. He drinks for and to his friends instead. Takes a hearty swig to brawls survived and debates won. Drinks to Joly’s health (constantly) and Bossuet’s luck (hardly ever). Punctuates Jehan’s poetry and Courfeyrac’s rants in dark red with equal fervour. Indulges Eponine’s sadness with a sympathetic clink of the glass…

He is well past turning to the green fairy for his own consolation. Instead, she defends his body against the chill that sometimes seems to spread from between his own ribs, joining forces with the unforgiving gusts coursing through Parisian streets and slipping inside the meagre room.

(And he asks neither Joly nor Combeferre about that peculiar sensation. The former is unlikely to know; the latter is likely to know too much.)

Sitting at the edge of his bed, Grantaire grabs the bottle, uncorks it with gusto and salutes the nearest canvas (not yet done, never really finished) before pouring absinthe down his throat, into his stomach, mind, through his veins right down to the chill-numbed fingers until they’re fit to grab the brush again.

(There is a warm breath still ghosting between his digits as the canvas turn from white to gold with each fluid movement of his wrist.)


End file.
